I loves ya America….

But you’re already starting to piss me off. And I’m still in international waters, or rather, 33,000 feet above international waters. At this point, the only America I’m experiencing is in a long metal tube packed full of Americans retuning from their British experiences. And while I understand the basic physics of flight, I also believe in Newton’s law of gravity. As in, what goes up may come back down in the form of a fig-filled tasty treat. Or at least resemble one after hitting the ground. So instead of dwelling on the void beneath my feet, I instead try to fill it with the thoughts of my return.

Yes, this redhead has left the British Isles, on his way to America, the land of opportunity and firearms. Man, I can’t wait shoot something.

There are things I’ll miss though. For instance, the Glasgow airport was fantastic. It really was. It has to be the only place that gives you the opportunity to buy cases of beer AFTER you go through security. The last four rows on my flight to London became a mile-high game of beer pong. It was great. And despite the plane being thrown in every known direction with the turbulence, they were still able to pour a mean gin & tonic. British Airways: We don’t just fly. We live. To party. But in that reserved, austere British way.

After getting selected for “random additional screening,” I couldn't help but wonder what it really was about the States that I missed. My friends? Of course. The food? Definitely the food. But definitely NOT having someone touch me intimately, when we’re not on a first-name basis. And they’re telling me to relax? Bringing stool samples to the local clinic every day for a week after getting sick in the Domican Republic would be less awkward. Was less awkward. At least they stayed away from touching my bathing suit area. I need an adult!

Sushi. Mexican. Stimulating conversation. REAL bacon. I hunger for these things, and none of them are to be found within the rectangular borders of my in-flight meal. My choices? Beef stroganoff or cheese tortellini. Or rather, grey slush or yellow slush. It’s too hard to choose. Your senses are already dulled due to the high altitude and the time change, and so the airline chooses this precise moment to culinarily SCREW you. Half the things on your tray don’t exist anywhere other than at 33,000 feet. Your food actually starts out, Shrinky-Dink style, as tiny hard versions that expand in water. Your only hope is to dump the entire ¼ teaspoon of pepper from that wee packet on one bite of your chosen slush, then have a mild freak-out from the piper nigrum, which will hopefully get the flight attendants attention, and then maybe score you a specialty meal. Just try not to convulse too much from the pepper overload, or some wanna-be hero is likely to tackle you and claim you’re a terrorist, and then the plane gets diverted to Greenland, where the real punishment begins. No one wants to go to Greenland. Not even Greenland wants to go to Greenland. Even Iceland, broke and poorly named, when offered to start over fresh in Greenland, said “No, we’re good. We’ve got enough whale blubber and pickled puffin to last us a while.” Maybe if they had a McPuffin burger, the Icelandic McDonald’s wouldn’t be closing down. Now with more real puffin.

So once the worst excuse for a “square meal” gets taken away, and the roll-y cart, which is the airline’s version of the giant boulder from The Temple of Doom is safely gone, I settle down to watch the movie. Except, due to some error, we get 5 hours of Top Chef instead. And it kicks off with guest chef Eric Ripert, one of the few men to whom I would willingly kowtow. The contestants are asked to fillet different fish, including salmon, anchovies, and live eels. Sweet!

Savoury! They blur out the fish! Are you freaking kidding me?!

What, they don’t want to offend our delicate American sensibilities by showing us the insides of a fresh fish? Apparently the sight of real, natural food would be harmful to some viewers. Or maybe it’s because if we saw good, fresh food on the tv, while eating the regurgitated, reconstituted, recycled food they serve us, the airline would have a mutiny on their hands. Parents would complain that their children are being exposed to disturbing images. And I’m not talking about Dick Clark’s Rockin’ New Year’s Eve.

We’re beset on all sides by corporations and larger powers telling us how to bring up our children in this modern food world. Under their tutelage, formula would replace good old fashioned breast milk, and chicken and fish would only come in stick or nugget form.

But no! Fight the power! Breast is best! And all fish needs to be filleted, even if it ultimately will become rectangular and frozen. Stupid people. So you piss me off America. Somebody complained about having to watch fresh fish becoming good food, at the hands of skilled professionals. If you don’t want to watch, then don’t. Put your head down and eat your slush. That’s the crap they should be blurring that out instead.

America, here I come!